For the Lilies
by The Moidart
Summary: Geralt's is not the only story to be told, while he was galavanting with Kings men and women fought for survival in the mud.
1. The Lilies: The Gate

There was little left in a war that could surprise a man like Lothar Mott. He was a veteran of both battles of Sodden, of Maribor, of Brenna and more skirmishes than he could remember – A career soldier Mott had tried his hand at other things but he lacked the patience to be a farmer and the manners to be merchant. The day began the same as any other of its kind. The usual smell of sweat, shit and bad cooking filled the air. The barks of captains and sergeants taking their fury out on clumsy recruits echoed throughout the camp, equalled only by ringing of the blacksmiths' as they went about their morning business. The whores made a killing as damn near half the army waited in queues to get one final plough before they braved the gates of La Valette Castle. Others knelt before the Priests and Priestesses joining the growing sound of hymns, others simply bowing their heads in silent prayer. Lothar Mott did what he always did before a battle – cleaned his armour. His chain mail hauberk had to be put through a barrel of sand and rolled, the stains had to be taken out of his surcoat and the mud had to be wiped from his boots – If Mott was going to die, he would not do it looking like some five groat sellsword. A shout broke the Temerian from his ritual.

"Up, you lazy whoresons!" Captain Giselbert bawled his men. "The King wants us up early, we're going to gut those La Valette bastards while they're taking morning shits." Mott quickly brushed off the final boot and pulled it on as those around him gathered their weapons. "Willit!" Giselbert shouted for one of the sergeants.

"Yes, Sir?" Answered Willit, a square jawed bull of a man who was midway through donning his mail.

"Get the lads out of the whores legs and ready to move within the half hour." Giselbert towered above Willit by at least two heads. The sergeant saluted and strode off to the back of the camp.

"Mott, you're leading the ram squad." Giselbert turned to the sitting sergeant. "So get up off your arse and get your boys ready." Lothar nodded and got to his feet, getting into the leather gambeson, mail hauberk and cloth surcoat with a speed that came with experience. Using his best parade ground voice Lothar searched out his own men.

"Dick, Glen, Simon!" He roared. "Go to the quartermaster and get the extra padding for the helmets. If he turns you away tell him he owes me for the Hawkers." The three men saluted and sprinted off. The troops always obeyed Mott with speed, especially the green ones. He lacked pure size of Giselbert and the lungs of Willit but he more than made up for it in other areas. He was a tall, wiry, gaunt man with more scars than his soldiers had years. His left ear was partially missing, a red scar running from it, across his cheek and to his chin. It had been given to him by a Knight leading a company of the Impera at Brenna, though as a trade off Mott now wore his winged helmet as a trophy. Those scars and that helmet inspired more fear and loyalty in his men than any skill at arms could.

"Jarek!" He roared at a decurion. "I want your arbalists keeping the La Valettes occupied so much that they can't even fart at me or mine."

"I'll try my best." The crossbowman promised as he set about stuffing several dozen quarrels into the linen bag at his waist. Before long all of Mott's men were assembled. Thirty soldiers in total, they all wore a mix of padded leather and mail like Mott himself. They were of too low rank and birth afford any kind of plate. They stood to attention where under less terrifying commanders they might have slouched. They stood as a solid unit, forcing waves of running soldiers to go around like a rock in the middle of a stream. Each one wore the lilies of Temeria upon their chests and a silver fist graced their shields.

"Boys!" Mott paced before them. "We'll be taking the ram." There were some sighs and more than a few curses from the soldiers. "Shut it!" Mott barked. "Yes we will be at the front, but we'll be the first through the gates and that means the most glory, best loot and you'll be the first to get to the women!" They gave a small cheer at that. Soldiers are fickle with their emotions and easily swayed to cheering – money and women being the easiest way to bring them to it. "Right now lets go kill some bastards!" They cheered even louder at that and followed Mott through an ocean of red and black tents. Other units of soldiers formed up in the open ground between the camp and the Castle, each one bearing the symbol of their lord or unit upon their shield. Giselbert along with Willit and the other sergeants stood by the ram talking to a young knight in plate armour.

"Your unit along with two others are to take the gate and ground level of the fort. After that you are to push through to the harbour and take boats across to the town." The knight said as he handed Giselbert his orders. The giant took the paper and scanned over it several times before nodding.

"You're in command?" Giselbert questioned. The Knight nodded.

"I shall lead the charge." He said proudly., puffing up his chest.

"So be it." Giselbert muttered, he was used to being under the command of young, vain nobles who had yet to face anything more dangerous than a sparring partner. Mott and his thirty moved into place behind the talking officers. The Knight rode off to tell the other unit commanders their orders as Giselbert beckoned Mott over.

"Try to make sure that idiot doesn't get himself killed." The Captain flashed a smile full of broken or missing teeth. The soldiers waited for the signal to be given, doing their final preparations: checking straps, putting padding in their helmets and discarding scabbards for a iron rings or simply sliding their swords into their belts. Mott took the time to observe the ram, which like everything made by the royal engineers was a work of art. The head was carved to look like the royal lion that could be found on some of the older Temerian shields. The ram itself was suspended from a wooden frame by several thick ropes. It was sheltered by a wooden roof that was covered with layers of both leather and metal – It would neither catch fire nor break under a rain of stones and bricks.

Before long the knight rode back, his armour glinting in the sunlight. Far to the left of the ram a great horn rang out, reverberating throughout the camp and over great host of Temerian soldiers. At the sound of it Mott whistled to his men and chose ten who promptly threw themselves against ram, pushing with all their might. The Knight drew his sword and waved it around above his head as the ram began its slow advance to the gates.

"Those rebels have defied us for too long!" He shouted to all those who could hear him. "They have betrayed their god-anointed King for a harlot! Now charge! Charge for Foltest, for Temeria, for glory!

* * *

The Knight died well before the ram reached the gate. His horse was hit by an arrow some thirty paces from the walls, though he climbed free from the kicking and screaming animal and continued the charge with a cry of "Temeria!". He was the first to touch the wall and the first to die at its base. A rock hurtled down from the high walls and caved in his skull as he called for the ladders. There was a hole in the side of the guard tower, made by one of the engineers' trebuchets, that some unlucky soldiers would have to climb through and attempt to open the gate if the ram faltered.

"Get your arses moving!" Mott roared to the ram crew as he hid behind his shield as best he could. The arbalists did not deliver on the promise, the La Valettes were doing much more than fart at their attackers. Arrows, quarrels and rocks slashed down like rain. One man-at-arms carrying the sigil of Lord Swann manage to deflect a rock the size of a gnome off his tower shield only for another on land on his foot. There was an audible crack as the bones in his foot fractured, though he was not in pain for long. An instant later an arrow took the soldier in the throat and he fell to his knees, clutching at his throat and choking on his own blood.

"Push!" Mott shouted them on as the men strained up the incline before the gate. Everything the defenders could throw bounced off the roof of the ram, leaving the men pushing it unharmed. "Help them!" He ordered his remaining men, who slung their shields over their backs and rushed under the protection of the ram. With close to thirty men sharing ten handles the ram made it up the final stretched and touched the gate. The extra men moved back out to give the crew some room, once more being forced to hide behind their shields from the defenders' rain. Dozens died every minute as those at the front tried to hug close to the walls and those at the back and middle were left with only shields.

"Heave!" The ram was pulled backwards and then with momentous effort, thrust forwards. The gate shook under the force of the blood. "Good! Again!" The ram was dragged back yet again before swinging forwards into the wooden gates. "Harder you lazy cunts!" Mott snarled at his men. Groaning with effort them men pulled the ram back as far as the ropes would allow before throwing themselves forwards. The gate shook yet again and part of the wood splintered. They dragged back yet again as death rained in from above through the murder holes. Those standing beside the ram fell to the ground, crying in pain as scalding water was poured through, Mott was safe however, half his body being covered by the ram's roof and the rest by his shield.

"Who are we?" He bawled at his men.

"Foltest's Fist!" They answered back with one voice as they once more heaved on the ram.

"And what are we going to do?" Mott did not flinch as a rock bounced off his winged helmet, whatever else they might be the Nilfgaardians made good armour, though the extra padding took its own share of the force away.

"Batter this fucking door down!" They roared back, pushing forwards with even greater vigour. Giselbert pushed his way through the throng of cowering soldiers.

"This is taking too long." He barked across the noise to Mott. "Those ploughing nobles will get to town before us." Mott spared a glance to his left. The great tower had finally reached the walls and the knights and lords finally charged across the bridge and into the defending line. Giselbert snarled at the sight of it and spun around to face the host behind him. "Willit, Tyrek!" He pointed to two of his sergeants. "Up the ladder!" Willit tightened the strap on his kettle helm and drew his sword.

"Come on boys, let's show those nobles how to do it." His men gave a small cheer and sprinted to the ladder. The first one up was an eager recruit from Vizima and like every first man up he died. His body came tumbling back down, an axe buried in his skull. The second man died too but the third made it over the edge, his spear forcing the defenders back long enough for his comrades to join him and a bulkhead was created. The fighting was fierce and every few seconds another body would tumble over the edge and come crashing down onto the roof of the ram. Willit hacked and slashed with the ferocity of a werewolf, snarling and screaming and his blade chopped into the neck of a La Valette man-at-arms.

"Harder!" Mott turned back to his own men. The gate was splintered and cracked in several places, the centre bending inwards. "Come on!" The men gave one final heave and push then with a great _crack _the locking bar snapped. Hearing it all the nearby Temerians rushed forwards and began to push against the gates. Under their weight the gate slid open to reveal the great fortress of the La Valettes. Giselbert stepped up, pulling his great mace from its harness.

"Lets go and kill some whoresons!" He cried, his voice easily carrying across all the men who bore silver fists upon their shields. The men gave a blood curdling roar and charged with him through the gates.


	2. The Lilies: The Town

The La Valettes awaited them on the other side. At least two hundred and fifty men in the green livery of the rebels charging to meet the Royalists, plate and mail glinting in the sunlight. The two sides met with a great boom as shields and bodies crashed together. Men fell to the ground, spears, swords and axes buried into their flesh. The soldiers in the first few rows were lucky if they manage to survive the first minute of the battle. The knights were safe in their plate, mostly. Sir Harold of Dorndal fell to a Temerian spear, its sharpened point sliding through his visor and into his unprotected eyes, more than half a dozen of his fellow knights were brought down by sheer weight of numbers soon after the blades started falling.

Lothar Mott avoided such men, preferring to fight the low-born such as himself. His blade snaked in and out like lightening, each movement finding flesh with surgical precision. He was an artist at what he did and took pride in it. He pushed a spearhead with his shield and thrust forwards with his short, its point going through the La Valette's gambeson and into his groin. The man cried in pain and spat at Mott, smashing his shield against the Temerian's side as he did so. Mott ignored the shield and twisted the blade before withdrawing it and slitting the man's throat. Another man came from his left, cutting down a Royalist with a vicious looking axe and pushing the dead man aside as he leapt at Mott, blood still dripping from the axe blade. Mott tried to jump backwards but crashed into a soldier in the way. The axe cut down and hit against Lothar's winged helmet. The black steel held and axe glanced off. Mott roared his war cry and punched his shield into the man's face. Blood erupted from the La Valette's face and he stumbled back. Lothar punched again, and again and again until the man-at-arm's face was a bloody wreck. He did not need to waste his blade on this traitor and instead kicked him to the ground before stomping on his throat.

Mott hated this kind of fighting. In an open battle the two sides would come together as a solid line. A man could rely on his flanks to be protected, not sieges though. Sieges were a series of brutal melees were a man could end up in the middle of an enemy formation without even realising it. There were no orders being given, or any that were could not be heard over cries of "LA VALETTE!", "TEMERIA!", "FOLTEST!", "FOR THE LILLIES!" and "DOWN WITH TYRANNY!"

Theses situations were deadly for everyone involved though thankfully this one was relatively brief. The levies and men-at-arms of Lords Swann and Myton, Duke Hereward and Baron Kimbolt soon joined the fray, forcing the tide against the La Valettes. Swords, axes, spears and halberds rose and fell again and again. A man died almost every two seconds as the line was slowly pushed through the tunnel and into the courtyard. The rest of the fortress fell in short order. There were more than a dozen brutal melees as the army made their way through the barricades and holdouts of the fortress. But none lasted as long as the first. Word spread among the defenders that Aryan La Valette had been captured and the fight went out of La Valette soldiers. The men-at-arms and knights of the other rebel Lords, however fought on or fled across the bridge to the town. One particularly large knight in the livery of Count Etcheverry refused to run. He stood his ground by the harbour, greatsword in hand and killed almost half a dozen men before one of Mott's men, Princess, cut his hamstring, tore off his helmet and buried a knife into the knight's eye.

Any kind of formation in the levies dissolved after the organised resistance fell apart, men ran off to find the store room or any of the now dead soldier's belongings. Mott however held his men in place.

"The best cunny is on the other side of the river!" He shouted at them. "So if you don't want sloppy seconds get to ploughing boats.". Under Giselbert's roar and murderous stare the rest of Foltest's Fist retained their discipline and made their way to the harbour. There were more than enough ships, varying in size from simple row boats to four great war cogs. They left of cogs alone and instead piled into the fishing boats and skiffs. It was only a two minute journey across the river but a third of the men still managed to puke their guts out. Giselbert climbed to the bow of his boat and turned back to the men.

"Who are we?" He shouted with a smile. The men grinned back and stamped their feet or slammed the butts of their spears on the deck.

"Foltest's Fist!" The men were happy, loot, drink and women awaited them on the other side of the river.

"And what are we going to do?" Giselbert and all the sergeants asked.

"Go to bed with a smile!" Their voices carried across the river and into the town, causing more than a few of the more curious and less safety concious townspeople to stick their heads out the windows. Whatever guards there had been at the harbour had long since fled or went to join the defence of the other parts of town. Mott reclined at the bow of one of the larger fishing boat ready to lead the charge.

"Come on boys!" Giselbert leapt off the bow and onto the harbour. He opened his mouth to speak again when an almighty roar, similar to the great war horns, filled the air. Men glanced up at the sky in confusion when a great black shape shot down from the clouds, flames billowing from it.

"Dragon!" One man cried, which was soon taking up by others. Many began to pray to Melitele or the Eternal Flame for protection. The beast swooped by the bridge before disappearing as it made for the town. Most of the men were now staring in confusion at the flames on the bridge.

"Well that was fucking peculiar." Commented Willit, breaking the silence that captivated the men. A nervous chuckle went up from some of the men at a joke made by one of the men-at-arms on the largest boat until those who hadn't even heard it joined in. Giselbert laughed the loudest of them all until he hit his mace off the ground, causing everyone to stop instantly.

"Enough of this, let's go find some whores!" The men gave a enthusiastic cheer and followed him, rushing off the ships and into one of the few untouched areas of the city. Flames rose from other parts of the town already, those who had been tasked with taking the town had landed almost an hour ago.

Mott rushed with the others up the lanes and alleys of the town. A few of the men followed him, knowing their sergeant had a nose for loot. He ran past several untouched houses, glancing down each path before he ran past. Finally he slid to a stop and stared down a lane and spotted his target. A goldsmiths. He ran to the door and tried it. Locked. And by the sound of it several times over. Mott spat on the ground and turned to his followers.

"Piggy, Princess!" He picked out two axemen. "Door." He gestured at said obstacle. Piggy gave a malicious grin and pulled the axe out of its harness on his back. Both men stepped up to the door and hefted their axes. The two men began to chop in turn, axe heads rising and dropping, striking the same spot with the precision of veterans. Wood chips flew as they broke through the door and began to turn the locking bar into kindling. Less than a minute after they started the door was torn off its hinges and left in several pieces on the goldsmiths' floor.

The whole group flooded in, some tried their luck with some of the chests in the room or settled for taking some of the tools, others made their ways up the stairs at the back of the shop in search of the living quarters. Mott pulled a nail from his pouch and took one of the goldsmiths' hammers that sat on a table and set about breaking the lock on one of the chests. With a satisfying crack the nail broke through the lock. Mott opened the chest and felt a grin creep onto his face as the contents revealed themselves. There was gold, silver and almost a dozen different types of precious metals and stones. If he found the right buyer it could all be worth almost two years wages and by the sound of a woman's scream from upstairs the rest of the men had found what they were looking for as well. Upon hearing it most of those downstairs abandoned what they were doing and rushed up the stairs.

Mott did not follow. Taking a woman as a prize had long since lost its appeal to him. While the others had a few minutes of enjoyment Mott could find enough loot to keep him in the poker games and give him credit in the taverns of Vizima for at least half a year. And the screams irritated him. The acting of a whore was much more pleasing to his ears than the protests of some townswoman. As the others had their fun Mott broke the locks on three more chests that they had been unable to open. None were as bountiful as the first but there was still enough to have made it more than worth the effort. He stuffed the contents of the chests into his pouches. Once they were full he tucked them into his boots, the lining of his surcoat, the inside of his gambeson and the padding inside his helmet until he could carry no more after that he pulled up one of the floorboards and stashed the rest.

Piggy came down the stairs a few minutes after the screaming began, his chubby face covered in blood. He sat down and began to wipe the blood from his face with the back of his glove.

"We found the goldsmith." He explained, a new golden chain gracing his fat neck. "Stupid whoreson protested to some light ploughing of his family..."

"The cheek of the man." Mott muttered as he straightened out his coat. Piggy ignored the remark and continued with both his story and the cleaning.

"He's got two daughters, twins and maidens both, the wife's not too bad either." Piggy wiped the last of the blood off and pulled on his glove. "Want a crack? The lads will wait if you want to go now?"

"I'll pass." Mott declined the offer.

"Suit yourself." Lothar checked all his straps before walking back onto the street.

The fighting still continued in the town and by the sound of some was no more than a few streets away. Mott did not go towards the sound, he'd killed enough idiots for one day.

"There's one!" Someone shouted. Mott looked towards the sound. Four La Valette men-at-arms stood at the bottom of the street, murder in their eyes. Mott sighed and drew his sword, you could never kill enough idiots in one day. Lothar braced himself and hefted his shield.

"Piggy!" He shouted as La Valettes charged towards him. The fat man-at-arms either did not hear or chose to ignore it. "Piggy get the fuck out here." Still Mott remained alone.

The first La Valette lunged the final few paces between them. Lothar caught the spear on his shield and swung down towards the man's head. The blade was parried by the second La Valette before it could strike. The third man's sword stabbed at Mott's head, forcing him to jump backwards. Lothar was off balance and the next blow sent him to the ground. The second La Valette stepped forwards and swung his sword down towards Mott's head when his hand disappeared into a spray of blood.

The soldier fell back, screaming and clutching at his stump of a hand as a white haired man leapt among the rebels like a wolf among sheep. His blade moved fasted than anything Mott had ever seen. His blade tore the throat out of the second man before he even knew what was happening. The Wolf rolled to the side, dodging a blow from the fourth La Valette, coming to his feet and thrusting his hand forwards. There was a blue light and the rebel was thrown against the wall. He bounced off the brickwork and crashed to the ground. The third man roared and stabbed at the Wolf, his blade was not even parried instead the wolf stepped to the side, letting the point sail pas before thrusting his blade into the man's stomach. The man died with blood on his lips as the Wolf pulled out his blade and walked away, muttering something about a monastery and a tunnel. Mott lay on the ground still in shock, _so that was the Witcher? Well he certainly knew how to make an entrance._ With a grunt the sergeant climbed to his feet and dusted himself down after sliding his sword back into his belt.

"How in the name of Melitele's perky tits did you manage this?" Piggy's fat face came through the door. Mott gave him a death glare and spat on the closest body.

"Great fucking help you were." Mott left Piggy with the shocked look on his fat face, Lothar needed a drink.

* * *

In all his years Lothar Mott had yet to discover a cure to hangovers, something he wished he had spent more time researching now as he lay slumped across a table in _Black Trout. _He had worked through nearly a months pay on drink and whores in one night and was now feeling the painful consequences of his actions.

"Can I get you a drink?" Margaret, the owner's wife asked him. "Wine, ale?" Mott replied by retching and throwing up into the bucket handily provided by Margaret the night before.

"Water, milk, piss. Anything that isn't ale or wine." Mott was on the verge of tears as he retched again. Giselbert, Willit and more than twenty others echoed the order.

"Coming right up." Margaret disappeared into out the back. Her husband had found a way to survive the sack with both his life and business intact. He had hid in the tavern and then opened his doors for business to the first officers and knights that had walked by, who in turn told any of the marauding soldiers to be on their way. Margaret returned with a pail of water in each hand, she placed them on the bar along with some cups and ordered the men to help themselves. Willit tried to climb from his stool and take a drink, making it halfway to the pail before he dropped to his knees, retching. Fortunately for both Willit and whomever had to clean the floor later nothing came up. Mott got to his feet and made his way to the bar at a much slower and safer pace. He eventually made it and drank heartily.

"I heard someone say the King is dead last night." Giselbert leaned heavily on the counter.

"So did I." Mott nodded.

"I heard someone say it was that Witcher who done it." Willit offered from the floor.

"I thought it was Aryan La Valette." Mott said. "Then again I heard someone else say that it was Jacques de Aldersberg's wraith that killed him."

"I heard it was the dragon." One of the knights put forwards. "Henselt." Another said. "Elves." and "Nilfgaard." were suggested several times. It took several minutes but they managed to discern that the Witcher committing regicide seemed the most common story.

"Foltest should never have trusted the godless freak." One of the knights spat. There was a general chorus of agreements from around the tavern but Mott kept quiet.

"Wait a second." Willit said, rising finally from the ground. "If Foltest is gone, who are we now?"

"What d'you mean?" Mott craned his neck to look at the near catatonic sergeant.

"If Foltest is dead then we can hardly be Foltest's fist can we?" Mott and Giselbert nodded, still frowning.

"Boussy's Balls doesn't have the same ring to it." Mott said after a minute of contemplation.

"Adda's Arses." Willit suggested. Giselbert growled and spat on the floor.

"Don't bring that inbred monster into it." He warned. Willit merely shrugged.

"Anais' Arses then." Some of the others chuckled at that.

"You know what this means though?" Giselbert said. "By the end of the week the nobles will be fighting in the streets." Nobody seemed particularly surprised or disturbed by this revelation.

"Well the best of luck to them." Mott muttered. "But right now I couldn't give two shits about their quarrels." Unfortunately for men like Mott not caring about the quarrels of his betters did not mean he got to sit them out.


	3. The Unicorn: Patrol

Tygett glanced up at the row of hanging bodies. It should have affected him in some way he was sure, but he felt nothing. Not even the grim satisfaction that had embraced him when he rode down the pair of Squirrels earlier in the week.

"Your work?" He asked of Sir Yost. The Knight of the Flaming Rose eyed the bodies disinterestedly.

"Work's too sloppy." He spat. "Some locals, most likely. What's a few dead elves, though?" Tygett nodded, he had nothing against the elves personally – he despised them the same way he despised any other group of wastrels and bandits.

"Just five less defenders on the walls of Vergen, m'lord." Piped up Black Styg, one of the sergeants who sat behind the young lordling and knight. Yost grunted in agreement and spat at the elves' feet. Tygett gave the bodies one final glance before kicking his horse into action and setting off again. The rest of the column followed, grateful for the break no matter how short it was. Sir Yost rode at the front with Tygett, followed by twelve of his brothers, each in a glinting set of red plate. Behind them rode Tygett's knights and men-at-arms, well his father's men to be precise and like everything his father bought their arms and armour were of middling quality. They could not match the splendour of Yost and his men but were far above the scrapings of the common soldiery. There were close to two dozen of them, each one sat on a horse – which were once again of middling quality. There were maybe another forty or fifty of Tygett's men at the camp, enough to avoid any accusations of treason or cowardice from Dethmold yet leave the Barony guarded from neighbours and bandits.

Yost's small, greedy eyes scanned every field, village and hamlet they passed, only stopping occasionally to scratch at his moustache and goatee in boredom. Tygett found the man to be a dreadful bore most of the time but father was a religious man and insisted on keeping the Flaming Rose fanatics around.

"We should question some of these farmers, they might have seen the scouts." Yost suggested. Tygett doubted it would only be questions, some force would be needed and likely some of the tools that Yost carried for any captured Squirrels. Tygett considered it, he was bored and could do with a distraction and a sit down.

"The hamlet, maybe half a league back." Said the lordling to Yost, whose thin lips formed into a smile.

"Patrol, about turn!" The Knight had the voice of a commander; Tygett had to give him that. His brothers turned their horses expertly all as one while Tygett's men bumped into each other and looked shoddy while doing it.

Tygett lead his horse around the men at to the new front of the column. It was a short ride back, going at a canter. Seeing that the patrol did not intend to go past them like the last time the residents of the hamelt tried to flee to the forest. Yost and his men kicked their horses into a gallop and gave chase. They cut across the farmer's path and shepherded them into the arms of Tygett and his men.

The farmers were escorted back to the hamlet, where Yost briefly set up residence in one of the houses. Tygett sat in the centre with a pitcher of water and three of his knights as Yost took the headman inside the house for questioning.

"Sir?" Black Styg approached the lordling. "Would you mind if the lads had some fun?" He gave a mischievous grin and bowed. Tygett wrinkled his nose at the man.

"Henselt's orders are no rape and we haven't the time to spare for you and the whole patrol to break it."

"Sir." Styg saluted and took the bad news back to the men-at-arms as they watched over the prisoners.

It was only half a minute later that the first scream came from the hut. The second one dragged on for longer, drawing the fearful eyes' of all the farmers towards the closed doorway.

Tygett tried his best to ignore the screams while engaging in small talk with Sir Edler, one of the few men in the contingent Tygett could call his own.

"What are the chances of us even finding some Aedirnians out here?" Edler asked, his eyes scanning the forest. "I heard Stennis and his men are all cooped up in Vergen. The rest of the Nobility will still be hiding in the south." Tygett shrugged.

"They won't like relying on the Squirrels for scouting, would you?" Edler shook his head. Tygett took a sip of water before continuing. "Stennis will have them out every few days – checking for reinforcements coming north, keeping an eye on us and making sure the elves aren't lying to him."

"You are right as always, Lord Leistham." Another companion, Sir Royce attempted flattery. A dozen or so feet away the soldiery's conversation was less about strategy and focused more on other areas.

"So how big do you reckon the Virgin's tits are?" Asked Hetty, one of the men-at-arms.

"Small." Black Styg muttered. "Can hardly fit in armour with big tits."

"Sir Edwin's got a fine pair and he fits fine." Hetty's pockmarked face broke into a grin. There was a chorus of laughter from the gathered shoulders and a series of jokes soon followed about the Petal, one of the common targets of their barbs – though only when the knight himself was absent and his uncle, the Baron Leistham was out of earshot. The laughter stopped when the door to the hut closed and two of Sir Yost's men emerged, carrying a bloody headman between them. They dumped him by the tearful farmers, who rushed to his assistance. As his family comforted him the Knights grabbed a younger, broad shouldered man – barely into his majority and escorted him to the hut. From what Tygett could see the headman appeared to be missing two fingers on his left hand, his face was bloody and bruised and his right ear seemed to have been partially cut off.

The young man's pained grunts came from the hut in quick order. He lasted longer than the headman had but after a while he too was dragged from the hut, broken and bloody but alive. This time they took two, a woman in her thirties and a small boy who clutched at her skirts. A short, squat man – presumably the husband and father tried to protest but was knocked to the ground by one of the knights. The mother and child were not taken to the hut but instead made to stand outside. Yost and the others emerged, the leader wiping blood from his armour while the others brought out various things. One carried a bag, presumably Yost's tools while a second brought a stool with him. The bag was taken back to Yost's horse while the stool was placed in front of the boy. Yost nodded to his men. One grabbed the woman and held her as a second grabbed the boy and forced him to place his hand on the stool. A third one, a great bull of a man, slung his greatsword off his back and drew it. The woman screamed and tried to break free from her captor but his grip was like iron and she could not move. The father once more tried to get to his family but a fourth knight stepped in his way and cracked and armoured fist across his jaw. The farmer went down where he was subjected to a kick to the balls.

"Stay down." The Knight hissed. Both the man and the woman begged, tears in their eyes.

"Tell me everything you know about the Aedirnian scouts." Yost demanded, his voice calm and toneless.

"I don't know anything about no Aedirnian scouts." The mother screamed, tears rolling down her face as her son struggled in vain against the knight who held his hand in place. He too had tears flowing from his eyes and cried out for his mother and father. The bull raised his sword.

"But Squirrels pass through the forest every few days." She relented. "There's a deer path they use that takes them past the Kaedweni camp, there's some Aedirnian noble types who camp up near the crest too – guarding the path, we take them food in return for not conscripting the men into the army at Vergen."

Yost waved off the bull and restraining knights. The instant he was free the boy ran and collapsed in his mother's arms. Yost marched over to Tygett and took a gulp from the pitcher.

"You believe them?" The Lordling asked.

"Of course, the other two told me the exact same." Tygett raised an eyebrow at that. "Had to be sure they were telling the truth – mothers rarely lie when their children are on the line." He thought it over.

"Mount up men, we have work to do!"


End file.
